


Broken Collar

by Theatregirl7299



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM themes, M/M, Multi, Non-major character suicide, Warning - photos are NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6518809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatregirl7299/pseuds/Theatregirl7299
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Burke used to be the premiere Dom in the New York BDSM community until a tragic event left him broken.  Neal Caffrey is in high demand as a Sub, but only wants to belong to Peter, and will do anything he can to help Peter become the Dom he once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Collar: Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/gifts).



> This story is for [](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/profile)[elrhiarhodan](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/) on her birthday. You are my sounding board, my shoulder to cry on, my Muse. I am the writer I am today because of your support, encouragement and inspiration. Happy Birthday, BB. The story is not finished, but I wanted you to have part of it on your special day. Hope you like.
> 
> This story was inspired by a piece of art that [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[**kanarek13**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/) created around Christmastime that I snagged and said “MINE!” I knew I wanted it for Elr’s birthday fic. She graciously agreed and created so much more to go along with this story – which you will see in subsequent chapters. Check out her art post [ **HERE**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/157154.html) to see her birthday gift to Elr.
> 
> **Beta Credit** : [](http://miri-thompson.livejournal.com/profile)[**miri_thompson**](http://miri-thompson.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://firesign10.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://firesign10.livejournal.com/)**firesign10**.  
> 

_**“If my Master is lost, I'll find him. I'll lead him back to himself,  
because to serve doesn't always mean to follow.”** _

― Joey W. Hill, Hostile Takeover

The rain thrummed against the windows as Peter let himself into his apartment. Flipping on the lamp on the foyer table, he hung his suit bag in the side closet and put his pilot’s hat on the top shelf.  
  
The flight from Reno to Teterboro had been uneventful – well, as uneventful as dealing with the drunk wife of the third vice-president could be. Her husband was too busy schmoozing to notice her state. Between her soused ramblings and her attempts to undress Peter before they took off, he was never more grateful to lock the cockpit door in his life.

Peter tossed his keys in the topaz Blenko glass bowl his sister Isabel had gotten him for Christmas last year and headed to the kitchen. On his way, he grabbed the remote to the Bose system, pressed a button, and the sounds of Yo Yo Ma’s rendition of Saint-Saëns’ _The Swan_ flowed gently from the speakers.

Peter felt his shoulders relax as the music washed over him. While he loved his job and its ability to take him all over the world, there was just something about his home that kept him settled – grounded. He chuckled to himself at that term. A pilot who needed to be grounded. His Nan would have had a good laugh at that. Some days the flower arrangements that his housekeeper Marta insisted on scattering around his apartment fluttered in the breeze, and he thought he could hear Nan's mirth in the gentle eddies.

Nan had left him the apartment, plus a sizable trust for its upkeep, telling him in her will that everyone needed a ‘safe haven in stormy times’. Sighing, Peter pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter, cracking the lid. He still missed her.

The music segued into Bach’s _Air_ from the Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major. Peter closed his eyes, enjoying the melody as he sipped his water. He had the next few days off – his CEO had winked at him as they’d practically carried the vice-president’s wife off the plane and told him he’d earned it.

Finishing the water, Peter tossed the bottle in the recycling bin and wandered into the living room. He was deciding whether to settle on the terrace with the latest Sunday Times crossword or maybe order some late-night Thai when he heard a thump from the upper floor.

He tensed. There shouldn’t be anyone in the apartment – Marta would have left hours ago – and the security in his building was excellent. Still, Peter looked around the room, checking to see if anything had been pilfered or pawed through. Everything looked undisturbed.

Another sound echoed, and now Peter was certain it came from the direction of his bedroom. He silently moved up the stairs, stopping at the hall closet to get his Louisville Slugger. It wasn’t the best defense, but at least it was something. He cursed under his breath that his gun was upstairs in his nightstand instead of downstairs where it would have been more accessible.

The upstairs hallway was shadowed, the only illumination seeping in over the balcony from the table lamps in the living room downstairs. The door to Peter’s bedroom was ajar, but there was no way he’d be able to see into the room.

Peter took a deep breath and said a quick prayer that if someone _was_ in his room, they didn’t have a gun. The door creaked as he pushed it wider and slipped past the closet.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming in the large windows from the cityscape, Peter could see a silhouette of a person. He hoisted the bat into a defensive position and flipped the light switch that controlled the recessed ceiling lights.

He gasped, his mouth dry with shock at the image before him.

A man was kneeling on his bed. Well dressed, he wore a white linen shirt opened at the neck and black pants. His head was bent, his hair shadowing his face and his hands were resting palms up on his thighs. A chill swept over Peter as he recognized the Submissive position. And the man holding it.

“David?” It was barely a whisper, but the man’s hands twitched. “What the - ?” Peter moved closer into the room. “What the hell? How did you get in here?”

David was silent.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Peter put the bat down with a sigh. He knew that David wouldn’t say anything unless Peter gave him permission. David's insistence on following total Sub protocol was one of the many reasons why Peter had dissolved their contract. “Look at me and you may speak.”

David’s head jerked up and their eyes met.

“What are you doing here, David?” Peter kept his voice modulated but strong. David wouldn’t respond to anything else.

“I came to see you.”

The eagerness of David’s words made Peter flinch. He’d forgotten how he’d grown to hate David’s needy tone. Hearing it brought back the arguments, the begging, the destruction – Peter shook his head to clear the memories.

“How did you get in?” He would need to have a talk with Carl from security. David had been removed from the approved list as soon as he had moved out.

“I took the service elevator.” David smiled. “I think we’ll like the new neighbors.”

Peter cursed softly. There were new tenants moving into one of the other penthouses today. David must have ridden up with them.

“But how did you get in here? You gave me your key when you left.” _When I had you removed_ , Peter thought.

“I had an extra.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. For the last month David could have come into his apartment at any time. He could have touched Peter’s things, stolen something, or – oh god – watched Peter while he was sleeping. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting to change the locks. He was about to speak when David’s comment caught up with him.

“Wait, what do you mean _we_ will like the new neighbors?” Peter had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like David’s answer. Surreptitiously he felt for the phone in his pocket. He really didn’t like where this was going.

“We have to have them over for dinner. You know, as a welcome to the neighborhood party.”

Peter couldn’t believe it. David was talking as if he was moving back in. “David…” he began, but the other man kept speaking.

“…In fact, I think we should have a party. Something on the terrace, maybe. The weather is getting so pleasant now.”

“David, stop.” Peter took a step forward. “You’re not moving back in. We’re through, remember?”

“No, we’re not.” David shook his head in calm denial.

“Yes – we are.” Peter tried not to let his anger show. David’s reaction was just another reason for their breakup. His refusal to address their issues had become a huge stumbling block for Peter.

“Then why do you still have this?” David gestured to something in front of him on the bed.

Peter glanced down to see a band of leather nestled in the sheets.

_Fuck._

It was the collar that he and David had purchased together on a trip to San Francisco. David had loved it, and they hadn’t been fighting at that point, so - on a whim - Peter had bought it for him.

They’d never used it. Every time David had brought it up, Peter had come up with a reason not to. And the more David pushed, the firmer Peter stood his ground. Peter had put it in a box in his playroom, and frankly, had forgotten it was there.

Obviously David hadn’t.

“Tell me, Peter. Why do you still have it if you don’t want us to be together?” David’s voice rose and Peter saw a flush spread over his cheeks.

Peter considered what to say. He could lie and tell David what he wanted to hear, or he could tell him the truth.

“We’re not getting back together, David.” Peter kept his voice firm but soft. “I should have removed it after you left. I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“No?” Peter was confused. “What do you mean ‘No’?”

“You wouldn’t have kept it if that were true.” David smiled and it was chilling. “You want us to be with each other – me wearing your collar.”

“I think you need to leave, David.” Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call security and they are going to escort you out.” He unlocked his phone to dial the front desk when he heard a clicking sound that made him freeze.

Slowly he raised his head to see David pointing a gun at him. _His_ gun. “David, what are you doing?” Peter tried to think of some way to get David to put the gun down, but his mind was paralyzed.

His eyes darted around the room, looking for something _anything_ to distract David, but all he could focus on was the gun in David’s hand and the bead of sweat sliding down his own face.

David smiled. “Say you’re sorry, Peter.”

“What?”

“Say you’re sorry for leaving me.”

Hoping it would buy some more time, Peter stammered, “I’m – I’m sorry, David.”

“For leaving me.” David gestured with the gun.

Peter flinched and prayed that the safety was on. “For leaving you.” He breathed easier as David lowered the gun.

“You’re such a liar!” David jerked the gun up and it went off, shattering the mirror behind Peter’s head. “You lied to me for months, Peter. _Months!_ You promised me you’d collar me, make me your permanent Sub, but you lied!”

“David, I - ”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

David was waving the gun around and Peter was certain that his finger was on the trigger. He had to do – say – something to gain control of the situation.

“You’re right. I lied.” Peter paused and licked his lips. “But it was because I was scared. I wasn’t ready for you to be my permanent Sub. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I understand. But if you put the gun down, we can talk about it.” Peter was grasping at straws.

“What, so you can lie to me again?” David snorted. “Do you know how much you hurt me, Peter?” He pointed the gun at Peter again. “Maybe I should just shoot you so you could understand my pain.”

Peter swallowed, his throat closed. “You won’t shoot me, David. We both know that’s not who you are.” He took a deep breath and said in a firm voice. “Put the gun down, David.”

Time felt like forever, but it was only a moment until David crumbled. “You’re right. I could never hurt you.” His voice was tight with tears. “But I _can_ blame you. This is your fault, Peter. You drove me to this. You’re responsible. And I want you to live the rest of your life with that thought.”

Peter watched in horror as David brought the gun up to his temple. He lunged forward to grab the gun. “David, NO!...”

…Peter screamed, jolting upright in the bed, the gunshot echoing in his head. He scrabbled at his face, trying desperately to wipe off the blood and brains.

But it wasn’t David’s brains - it was only Peter's tears.

He took a shuddering breath, realizing he’d been dreaming yet again.

“Oh god, oh god…” The nausea hit and he rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach into the trashcan which had taken up permanent residence next to the side of his bed.

After he was finished heaving, Peter fell back onto the bed, his eyes shut. His breathing was erratic and he felt his heart racing. Peter tried to calm himself but it wasn’t working.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand and tapped the ‘number one’ position on the speed dial. Holding it to his ear, he curled in on himself and rode through the tremors that were shaking his body.

The person on the other end picked up. _“Hello?”_

“Elizabeth,” he whispered. “I need you.”

Elizabeth Mitchell pressed the elevator button repeatedly, even though she knew that it wouldn’t make the machine descend any faster. It helped ease her stress. Carl was sitting at the security desk and he chuckled as she cursed the old technology.

“You know that won’t help, right, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Yes, Carl.” She turned to him with a sigh and a smile. “But it makes me think I’m doing something.”

“I understand.” His face became solemn. “He having a rough night?”

Elizabeth sighed again. “Yeah, Carl, he is.” She was consistently amazed at the concern the staff had for Peter after what had happened. They kept track of him, going so far as to call her if they thought Peter needed to see her.

The elevator door opened and she stepped in, waving at Carl as she did. Pressing the button to the Penthouse floor, she dug inside her purse for her keys.

Pulling them out, she flipped to a solid brass one for Peter’s apartment. Looking at it, she smiled slightly. She never regretted not taking Peter on as a patient. She could be more help to him in an unofficial capacity. Like tonight.

Stepping out of the elevator, she let herself in to Peter’s apartment.

“Peter?”

There was a lamp on low in the living room, giving just enough illumination to let her know that Peter wasn’t there. A quick check of the kitchen came up empty as well and her concern grew. She knew Peter must have called her from the bedroom – it was typically how things started – but if he was still in there, then she knew it must be bad.

Elizabeth hurried up the stairs and pushed the bedroom door open.

“Peter?” She spoke softly, not wanting to startle him.

“El?” Peter’s voice was hoarse and she could smell the stench of vomit in the room.

“I’m here, Peter.” She opened one of the windows, the spring air clearing the odor in the room, and came over to the bed. Wrinkling her nose, she quickly bagged up the trash liner and made a mental note to take it out with her later.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gazed down at Peter.

He was pale and sweaty, wrapped up in the blankets as though they were protection against the outside world. She ran a hand through his hair in a soothing manner, glad to see that he didn’t flinch when she touched him. That meant he was calming down. Sometimes it would be so bad that she couldn’t touch him for hours, instead having to helplessly watch him shake and cry.

“El,” he said again and reached out to pull himself closer to her. She let him, scooting back so he could wrap his body around her. It was a position she knew would help him calm even further. She took his hands and rested them in her lap, circling her thumbs in his palms.

They sat like that for a while. Elizabeth monitored Peter’s body language, his breathing rate, noting that the shaking had finally stopped.

“Need to shower.” Peter shifted and she got up to let him leave the bed.

“I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.” She took the trash bag with her, letting Peter have his privacy. She heard the shower start as she headed downstairs.

Trash disposed of in the incinerator, she busied herself making tea and digging around for some of the orange cranberry cookies she knew had been delivered a few days before.

“Hey.”

Elizabeth looked up to see Peter standing in the doorway, his hair still damp. He was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old Yankees t-shirt who’s logo was faded to the point of invisibility. She didn’t ask if he was okay. She wouldn’t be here if he was.

“Hey back.” She took down two mugs. “I have tea but I can make coffee – your pick.”

“Tea’s fine.”

She fixed him the Earl Grey that she knew he liked – two sugars, please – and herself some Orange Zinger. Handing him his mug, she grabbed the tin of cookies. “Dining room, living room or terrace?”

“Terrace. I think I need some fresh air.”

Peter followed her as she headed to the French doors that led outside, opening them so they could walk out to the grouping of lounge chairs.

Elizabeth placed the tin on the table. Sitting down, she kicked off her shoes and curled her feet up next to her. Peter sat down in an opposite chair and placed his mug on the table next to the tin.

“So,” Elizabeth said, breaking the silence. “You dreamt again.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Peter sighed. “About that night. When David…” He stopped and she watched him shudder. “I woke up right when David pulled the trigger and…his blood...it was all over me.”

“Do you know what might have triggered it?” Elizabeth didn’t offer comfort; that moment had passed. Now came the part where Peter had to work through his trauma.

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Peter shrugged helplessly. “I can’t think of anything specific.”

“Sometimes there isn’t anything.” Elizabeth smiled softly. “Sometimes it just can be in the back of your subconscious and surface.”

“Well then, how the hell am I supposed to get better if I don’t even know when I’m gonna have the damn dream!” Peter was angry, and she couldn’t fault him for it. “This has been happening for six months, El. The guys at work have commented that I’m crankier than usual.”

She laughed softly. Peter’s definition of cranky was far different than the real world’s. He might be stern, but he was always quick with a smile and everyone loved him.

Which is what made him - _had_ made him - an excellent Dom. From what Mozzie had told her, Peter had been in high demand for scenes before he and David had set up their contract.

Now? He hadn’t stepped foot in the club since David’s suicide, much to Mozzie’s disappointment. It was one of the ongoing disagreements she had with her friend and sometime scene partner. Mozzie thought Peter needed to get back into the lifestyle as quickly as possible, while Elizabeth knew that too much too soon might trigger Peter and set him back.

“You’re not cranky, Peter and you know it.” Elizabeth sipped her tea as she thought about her answer. “You know, we’re never going to be able to determine every possible trigger, but we CAN see about tools to reduce your stress level. How do you feel about yoga?”

Peter snorted. “Um…no. Downward Facing Dog is not gonna happen.”

“I didn’t think so.” Elizabeth leaned forward and opened the tin. Grabbing a cookie, she held one out to Peter. “Meditation could work. I’ll be happy to research some techniques and see what we can come up with.”

“See, this is why you need to be my therapist, not Dr. Hartfield. So far he’s done nothing for me.”

“You know why I can’t be your official therapist, Peter…” she began.

“Yeah, yeah. Doctor-patient ethics. I know.”

“Plus Dennis _has_ been helping you. When’s the last time you had a panic attack during the day?”

Peter sighed. “You’re right, he has been helping. I just get so frustrated.” He ran his hand over his face. “I’m so tired of feeling like I’m broken.”

Elizabeth leaned forward and put her hand on his thigh. “You’re not broken, Peter. Just slightly bent.”

He chuckled at their old joke. “Yeah, just ask my cousin Bill when he accidentally opened the door to my playroom.”

“Mozzie told me about that.”

“I don’t think Bill’s spoken to me since.” Peter took another cookie. “Man, these are good. Mozzie?”

“Yeah. He made a big batch and thought you would like them so he had them delivered.”

“Huh. Probably should call him and tell him thank you.”

Elizabeth looked at him over the lid of her mug. “Maybe you should thank him in person.” She saw Peter’s face close down and sighed. “Peter…”

“I’m not going to the club, El. I’m done with the lifestyle.”

“Then why haven’t you dismantled your playroom?” she challenged him. “If you’re truly finished, then it should be easy to get rid of everything.”

“I’m…not ready.” Peter looked down at his mug. “Just…not yet.”

“Peter.” Elizabeth spoke gently. “Is the reason why you haven’t taken down your room because of David or because of you?”

She saw Peter flinch and knew she’d touched a nerve. But she knew it had to be done. In order for Peter to truly get better, he needed to be honest with himself. Patiently she waited as he formulated an answer.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

Elizabeth wasn’t surprised. In all their talks over the last six months, it was obvious to her that Peter didn’t want to explore that issue – it hit too close and he wasn’t ready for it. But tonight she saw a slight crack in Peter’s façade that she thought might be a way to start.

“Do me a favor,” she said, placing her mug on the table. “Close your eyes.”

“El.” Peter shot her an exasperated glance. “We’re not going to play one of your games, are we?”

“Just humor me, Peter.” Elizabeth smiled at him. “Close your eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She watched as Peter did as she asked.

“Now breathe. In for three and out for three.” She waited, observing the drop of his shoulders and the seeping out of tension as he became more relaxed.

“Ok, now I want you to say the first thing that pops into your head.” She paused. “What do you think of when you think of your playroom?”

“Control,” Peter said immediately.

“Why control?”

“Because that’s who I am when I’m in there.” He grimaced, eyes still shut. “Or who I was.”

“Are you not Control anymore?” She added a slight emphasis to the word, turning it into a name, giving it power.

“No.”

“Because of David?” Elizabeth kept her voice even, neutral. They were walking a fine line and she didn’t want Peter to tip and either close down or spiral out.

“Yes,” Peter said softly.

“But David didn’t kill himself in the playroom.”

“Doesn’t matter. He killed himself and I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t in control.” Peter was shaking, not as bad as earlier, but enough for Elizabeth to be cautious. “It was my fault he died.”

“Why is it your fault?” _This was the question,_ she thought. _The one Peter always shies away from._

“Because…because I’m responsible.” The words were ripped out of Peter’s mouth. “I’m responsible…it’s what he told me right before he pulled the trigger…”

Peter started sobbing, big gasps of air as he continued to tremble. Elizabeth quickly got up, sinking down next to Peter and wrapping her arms around him, holding him tight as he shook.

Peter had never shared that part of what happened with her _or_ Dr. Hartfield before. It explained so much. And it gave her a firm direction towards helping him.

_God, David, what did you do?_ Elizabeth thought angrily as she held Peter while he cried. She wished she could go back in time and undo all the damage David had caused. She was sure that there were things even before the suicide that she could blame David for.

She stroked Peter’s hair, rocking him and murmuring nonsense words until his breathing eased and he began to relax.

Peter straightened up and wiped his face. “Sorry. God, El, I’m so sorry. I keep doing this to you.”

“Don’t be. It’s what I’m here for.” She hugged him tight. “Besides, it’s not every day that I get to hug the premiere Dom in New York City,” she said in a teasing voice, testing his reaction to her words.

Peter smiled weakly at her. “You’re the only one who gets to these days.”

Elizabeth ducked her head so he wouldn’t see the small smile of triumph on her face. Peter usually scoffed or got angry when she called him that. This was the first time he’d actually answered with humor.

It was a start.

“You look beat. How about we get you to bed?” She rose and held out her hand.

“You know, I already have a mother,” Peter commented, but he wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Yes, but she’s living in Boca Raton with her cabana boy and I’m here,” Elizabeth replied with a wink. “So you’re stuck with me.”

“Don’t remind me.” Peter groaned. “That is an image I don’t really need.”

Elizabeth laughed at the face Peter made, happy to see that he was starting to relax again.

“Want to change the sheets?” she asked as they entered his room.

“Yeah, I think I’d feel better. I’ll go get them.” He headed to the hallway linen closet.

Elizabeth went to the bathroom and poured a glass of water. She opened up the medicine chest and took out the bottle of melatonin that she knew Peter used to help him get to sleep. Returning to the bedroom, she put both items on Peter’s nightstand in case he needed them.

Peter returned and they quickly changed the sheets.

“You’re staying, right?” Peter gestured to the alarm clock that read ‘3:45 AM’.

“I have a nine AM appointment,” Elizabeth began, but Peter shushed her.

“Let me rephrase that. It’s late, you’re staying and we can call a car in the morning.”

His voice was confident – Dominant – and it made her shiver. It was no wonder he’d been in high demand if he could do that strictly by speaking.

“Yes, Master.” She teased him again and was rewarded with another smile.

“C’mon, smartass. It’s late.” Peter pulled a t-shirt out of the dresser drawer and tossed it to her. “You can sleep in this tonight.”

“Thanks.” Elizabeth stepped into the bathroom and quickly changed. When she emerged, Peter was already in bed.

She crawled in next to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well.”

He regarded her with a soft expression. “Have I told you thank you lately?”

“What for?”

“For all this. For caring. For not giving up on me.”

“You’re worth too much to give up on, Peter Burke.” She held his gaze. “And we will work through this and you will get better.”

“Okay.” Peter smiled. “Okay.” He opened his arms and she settled in for the hug. She knew Peter needed the closeness and she was happy to give it to him. “Good night, Peter.”

“Night, El.”

She listened as his breathing lengthened and felt his body slip into sleep.

As her eyes closed, she renewed the promise that she had made to herself when she first met Peter – that she would help him become whole again.


	2. Broken Collar: Chapter Two

The sidewalks were empty, the rain having driven most of the city’s populace indoors. The concrete glistened in the neon lights of bars and bodegas as a few hearty souls braved the downpour to hail taxis.

Neal Caffrey hunched under his black golf umbrella and turned up the collar of his black duster as he approached a nondescript doorway nestled between a tattoo parlor and all-night Italian take-out place. 

Pushing the button at the side of the door, he waited until a tinny voice said, “Password.”

“Mosconi.” 

The door buzzed and the lock unlatched. Neal entered, closing and shaking his umbrella. In front of him was a set of stairs, and he could hear murmurs from the landing above him. Sconces cast a warm glow over the deep red paint and lacquered black wainscoting, creating a soft elegance that was belied by the plain entrance. He climbed the steps, grinning at the soft notes of a smoky saxophone. Mozzie must be in a jazz mood tonight. 

At the top of the stairs, a few people waited in line in front of an exquisite Art Deco desk, while others were seated at small tables filling out forms. Neal smiled at the young woman seated behind the desk. “Hello, Celeste. How are you?”

“Just fine, Mr. Caffrey.” Celeste smiled back. “Will you be participating this evening?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.” Neal shrugged off his overcoat and handed it and his umbrella to the coat check clerk.

“Would you like for me to let Mr. Winters know you’re here?”

“No, I’ll find him.” Neal tipped an imaginary hat to her and she giggled. “Is Bobby on the door tonight?” 

“Yes.” Celeste reached in to a side drawer and held out a grey gel bracelet. “Here you go.”

Neal slipped it over his right hand. “Thanks.”

He walked over to the door and rapped on it. Moments later it opened and Bobby, one of the club’s bouncers, stood there grinning at him.

“Hey there, Neal.” 

“Hi, Bobby. How’re you?” Neal shook the man’s hand.

“Can’t complain.” Bobby stepped aside to let Neal enter. “Mr. Winters is in his office if you want me to page him.”

“No need. I’ll go find him.” Neal clasped Bobby on the shoulder and looked around at the lounge. “Good crowd tonight.”

The room was filled with couples and singles seated in the deep black chairs. The sound of ice clinking against glass created an interesting counterpoint to the slow jazz playing over the sound system. Neal loved this portion of the club – it felt like an old speakeasy with its wood and brass trimmings. Sometimes he never made it into the main room, preferring to sit and enjoy people-watching over an iced glass of Ketel One. 

He made his way to the bar, stopping to talk to those patrons he knew, nodding at those he didn’t. A tall, dark-haired man approached him.

“Hi. You’re Neal, right?” At Neal’s nod, he smiled and extended a hand, looking Neal up and down. “My name’s Jonathan.”

“Hello, Jonathan. It’s nice to meet you.” Shaking his hand, Neal looked back, appreciating the man’s long legs, wide chest and close-cropped brown hair. Just his type. Usually. 

“So I was wondering…” Jonathan began and paused.

Neal smiled to himself. He knew exactly what the man wanted by the color of his bracelet. Purple – it meant that Jonathan’s kink was flogging. It always happened when he came here. Neal had a reputation as _the_ Sub to scene with, especially if you were into bondage, and he got at least half a dozen offers to play every time he came to the club. He turned most of them down, only choosing a few partners he knew well when his need became too great.

But tonight wasn’t one of those times. Truthfully, it hadn’t been for a while. It wasn’t that Neal wasn’t interested in Subbing. In fact, it was the exact opposite. He needed to Sub. It balanced him, made him feel whole. But he only wanted to Sub for one person.

Peter Burke.

_Like that’s going happen_ , he thought to himself. Maybe he should take Jonathan up on his offer… 

Instead, Neal gave Jonathan a rueful smile and held up his wrist. “Sorry…not playing tonight.” 

“No worries. Just thought I’d ask.” Jonathan smiled back and gave him a slight bow. “If you’re ever interested, let me know.” 

“I will.” Neal watched him walk away with a moment of regret, and turned to the bartender. “I need a drink, Blake. Before I change my mind.”

Blake chuckled. “Still holding out?” he asked, pouring the icy vodka into a chilled glass.

“A man can have dreams, right?” Neal chuckled, taking a sip. 

“Yup.” Blake quickly fixed a drink and handed it to another patron. “You know, if anyone could get him to come back here, it would be you, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. “Thank you for your support, but I don’t think Peter is coming back any time soon.” Not that he would know, since he’d technically never met the man. But Mozzie said that Peter had refused all his invitations to come to the club since that night.

“That’s too bad.” Blake wiped the bar down. “We miss him. He was always nice to the staff.” 

“Mozzie mentioned that.” Neal finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. “Okay, time to brave the masses. Who’s on stage tonight?”

“Mistress Felicia is doing a bondage demo with Dmitri, her new Sub. It’s pretty good.”

“I’ll have to take a look. Thanks for the drink.” He tipped Blake a twenty and headed into the main room.

Darker in décor than the front room, these walls were black with gold trimmings in an Art Deco design. The booths around the room had low lacquered tables with electric candles in the center, while pin spots highlighted the round four tops scattered about the space.

Neal took a seat at the bar and focused on the stage. A tiny redhead had a man twice her size bound and suspended with blue Shibari cords. The intricate designs highlighted his pale skin, making a dark counterpoint to the angry red of his ass where she’d marked him with a leather paddle.

Neal shivered, his cock stirring. He remembered the first time he’d performed on that stage. He had been young, scared, and totally aroused. Mozzie had paired him up with Clinton Jones, an up-and-coming Dom, so they both could get the experience of scening in public. 

Jones had had him blindfolded, cuffed and spread-eagled to a scaffold-like contraption, a spreader bar locked to his ankles. Neal had been naked, his back toward the audience as Jones had whipped him with a leather riding crop. Jones had never drawn blood, but the welts and bruises that had crisscrossed Neal's ass and thighs had lasted for at least a week. The rush of desire had been so great that Neal had come twice during the demo. He had had to be carried off the stage, he’d been so deep in subspace.

Jones had helped him discover his love for bondage; that exact moment when he was at the mercy of someone else, struggling against his bindings until he felt that flood of submission fill his body.

It gave him what he needed to offset his job as a homicide detective. A way to cut through the murder and destruction that he saw every day; to cleanse himself of the dark underbelly that was humanity. And it was almost perfect.

Almost.

No matter what he did on stage, or in the privacy of the back rooms of the club, Neal still felt like he was looking for that certain something that would take him over the edge into perfect submission. He’d tried different partners. Men. Women. Transgender. He enjoyed it, got off almost every time, but it just wasn’t the right connection. Something was missing each time he scened - he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Until the night he saw Peter.

Neal had just ended his contract with Jones – amicably – and tonight he was looking for a short-term partner at the club that night. He’d dressed to the nines; tight leather pants leaving nothing to the imagination, tailored silk shirt, black leather bands mimicking the cuffs he was fond of. All in the hope of catching the attention of a new Dom.

Peter Burke was sitting in a corner booth. At his feet, his Sub David was kneeling on a cushion. Peter wasn’t wearing club attire; just a pair of dark pants and a simple white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of half rims as he perused what looked like the Sunday Times crossword.

On any other man it would have looked affected. On Peter, it looked natural, like he was at home relaxing. That easy casualness kindled a fire low in Neal’s belly. 

Several patrons stopped by to talk to him, Doms and Subs alike, and Peter greeted them with a smile and easy laughter. But it was the power underneath that drew Neal to him. Subtle, graceful, intoxicating - Peter was control and command wrapped up in long legs and a gorgeous body. Just looking at him made Neal feel like he was about to step off a high ledge with no net. And he wanted to take that step.

_God_ , did he want that. 

He wanted to explore the electric thrill that was zinging through his body. He watched Peter talk and laugh; saw him place his hand on the back of David’s neck and caress him, and it made Neal yearn to be in David’s place. To be the one that Peter touched so intimately.

Right then and there, Neal was ready to go down in his knees for Peter in front of everyone in the club and beg for the opportunity to be his Sub, even if it was only for one night.

He approached Peter’s table, ready to introduce himself, when there was a ruckus at the bar. A big beefy man had been holding a young woman by the arm and shaking her as she tried to pull away. Neal’s cop instinct had kicked in and he had headed to assist. There was no harassment or unwanted forced tolerated in the club. He and the bouncers broke up the situation easily, but when he turned back to seek out Peter, the booth was empty. 

Later over drinks, Mozzie filled him in on who Peter was and about his relationship with David. Neal understood – it was a total breach of protocol to poach a contracted Sub’s Dom, but every time he saw them at the club it just increased his desire for Peter. It got to the point that he Neal stopped playing and became a voyeur, watching scenes but refusing to participate in any. 

Then came the night he got the call to Peter’s address…

Neal’s thoughts were interrupted by applause. Mistress Felicia was finished with her demo. He politely clapped along with everyone else.

“You weren’t paying attention at all, were you?” 

Neal looked over to see his best friend sitting on the stool to him. Mozzie’s voice was a mix of humor and chiding. Neal chuckled. “I was…and then I wasn’t.”

“What were you thinking about?” Mozzie pushed a glass of vodka towards him. 

Neal took a sip. “First time I was on that stage.” He didn’t need to tell Mozzie that Peter was in his thoughts as well. Mozzie knew that would be a given when Neal came to the club.

“You were amazing.” Mozzie leaned back against the bar. “Best first performance I ever saw.”

“You just liked looking at my ass.” Neal finished his drink and motioned for another.

Mozzie shrugged. “Hey, we all have our kinks…” he began.

“…and you cater to all of them,” Neal finished the phrase that Mozzie liked to use concerning the club.

“I give the people what they want,” Mozzie said simply. “And speaking of which, the new St. Andrew’s Cross came in yesterday. Bobby set it up in the Obsidian Room if you want to take a turn on it.”

“Not tonight.” Neal tapped his bracelet.

“I should permanently attach that to your wrist.” Mozzie sighed. “That, or revoke your membership. You haven’t played in months. Why are you still coming?”

“I’d say it was your charming personality, but wait...oh…you don’t have one.” Neal sipped his whiskey, his grin taking the sting out of his words.

“Snark does not become you, mon frère.” Mozzie turned and surveyed the crowd. “Neal, he hasn’t been here since David.”

“I know.” Neal watched a couple kiss and head to the door that led to the back playrooms.

“He may never come back.” Mozzie’s voice was gentle this time. “No matter how many times I invite him.”

“I know,” Neal said again. 

“So why are you still pining? You’ve only met him once, and that was not under the best of circumstances. He doesn’t even know you.”

“Yeah, but I can’t help myself.” Neal shrugged. “Hope springs eternal and all that crap.”

“What would you say if he _were_ here?” Mozzie struck a pose. “‘Hi, my name’s Neal. I want to be your Sub. And by the way, the first time we met you had your boyfriend’s blood dripping down your face.’” 

“Not funny, Moz,” Neal protested, but he had to agree. There was no good way to say that Neal had met Peter at the crime scene of his Sub's suicide.

“Exactly my point.” Mozzie regarded him with concern. “It’s _not_ funny.” Neal heard him sigh. “Neal, you’re gonna have to give up this insane desire to Sub for Peter Burke. He’s too damaged to ever come back.” Mozzie got up and gestured for Neal to join him. “C’mon. I’ve got to make the rounds.”

Neal stood, leaving a tip next to his glass. “So what has Elizabeth told you?” He knew he was pushing, but he was genuinely worried about Peter as a person as well. “How is he doing, other than not being here?”

Mozzie raised an eyebrow – his ‘really?’ expression - before he started towards the door to the back-rooms.

“Despite my ‘insane desire’, as you’ve called it, to Sub for Peter, I really am worried about him.” Neal drew in a breath. “That night, Moz, it was…not good.” He shuddered at the memory. “No one should have to go through that. I’m just concerned.”

As they walked down the corridor where the private playrooms were, Neal could see that Mozzie considering what to tell him. “Don’t feel like you have to break Elizabeth’s confidence, Moz. A general description’s fine.”

They paused outside one of the doors. Neal could hear the sound of leather connecting with flesh and a man’s voice whining, “Yes, Mistress, I’ve been a bad boy.” He chuckled. Some stereotypes were there for a reason.

“He’s better,” Mozzie began. “But some days are bad. He’s still having nightmares. Elizabeth says she doesn’t have to go over as often, but when she does, he’s been having full-blown panic attacks. She’s been working with his therapist, but they’re kind of at a standstill.”

“Have you been able to visit yet?” Neal knew this was a touchy subject. The last Mozzie had told him, he hadn’t been over to see Peter, but had spoken to him on the phone. It had really hurt Mozzie that Peter didn’t want to see him. For all his eccentricities, Mozzie was loyal to a fault to those who were his friends.

“Not since I gave him Elizabeth’s business card, but she’s is working on him. I keep sending him cookies, which he calls and thanks me for, so that’s a positive thing.” Mozzie grinned at that. “She’s going to suggest that having dinner together next week at his apartment will be good for him.” 

“I hope it works. For both of your sakes.”

They finished the walkthrough and went into Mozzie’s office. Neal sat down on the green leather couch while Mozzie poured them some of the Barolo he had. 

“So…” The tone of Mozzie’s voice had Neal cringing. They were back to his need to Sub for Peter. “Are you going to take my advice and get past your obsession with Peter?”

Neal sighed. “Not sure I can, Moz.”

Mozzie stared at him in silence; long enough to make Neal fidget. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” Neal didn’t understand what Mozzie was getting at.

“Okay. If you need to see this thing through, then I’ll help you.” Mozzie sat at his desk and began scribbling. 

“What?”

Mozzie sighed and put down his pen. “I have always thought that you and Peter would be fantastic together. You two complement each other. But he was with David, and later the opportunity never allowed itself. I’m not saying that things will work out now, considering the circumstances, but I figure we could try to at least get you to meet him and see what happens.”

Neal couldn’t believe it. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’m doing it for the both of you. Peter needs to start living again and I think you’d be the perfect reason for that to happen.” 

“Wow. I’m…shocked, I guess.” Neal paused, considering Mozzie’s words. “So…what do you have in mind?”

“I have an idea. Not sure if it’s going to work so I’m not going to share right now.” Mozzie grinned and pointed at Neal. “But if it does, you’ll need to figure out what you’re going to say to your crush.”

Neal blushed. “Smart ass.”

“Better a smart ass -”

“-than a dumb ass,” they both finished with a laugh.

Neal sat back and slowly sipped his wine. For the first time in a while, he felt things were looking up. If Mozzie could pull this off, he was going to meet Peter Burke.

The thought terrified him.


End file.
